


Rogathe

by neko_fish



Series: Aravel [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, M/M, Pre-Canon, Slavery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 23:33:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13845360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neko_fish/pseuds/neko_fish
Summary: “Su-la-deen? Su-le-din?” Dorian mutters, trying to write the words down.He manages to catch the first four words before the last slips from his mind. Cursing, he continues mumbling the syllables to himself as he stares at his poor rendition of words on the page.Evidently, Mahanon left him a parting message in Elvish? Elven?Maker, he doesn't even know the name of the language.





	Rogathe

**Author's Note:**

> My sources for Elven are from the game and from [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3719848), all done by the amazing [fenxshiral](http://fenxshiral.tumblr.com) and their Project Elvhen.

“Suledin, Dorian. Ema rogathe. Dareth shiral.”

Dorian frowns, the syllables sounding new and foreign to his ears. But as he opens his mouth to ask their meaning, Mahanon shakes his head and leaves with Felix. He sees them off from the doorway, arms crossed and leaning against the doorframe. The entire city feels emptier already, even as he waves goodbye as the carriages depart for Orlais.

The moment they’re out of sight, he hurries back to the study to find a quill and parchment, the loneliness immanent but temporarily held at bay in favour of more academic pursuits.

“Su-la-deen? Su-le-din?” he mutters, trying to write the words down. He manages to catch the first four words before the last slips from his mind. Cursing, he continues mumbling the syllables to himself as he stares at his poor rendition of words on the page.

Evidently, Mahanon left him a parting message in Elvish? Elven?

Maker, he doesn't even know the name of the language.

Scratching his head, Dorian paces the room reading the words out loud to himself in hopes for something to click. It’s an impossible, unrealistic kind of hope at best considering his complete lack of knowledge in this field. And as if to drive the point home, the more he reads it, the more the syllables twist and tangle in his mouth. Exhaling, he stops and rubs his chin in thought, trying for a more analytical approach.

Likely, it will be something teasing or perhaps a final parting shot.

_I hate you, Dorian. You are an ass. Good riddance._

Or perhaps, _you’re a coward, Dorian. Go suck a lime. I'm out!_

On the other hand, it could be the opposite and more along the lines of _you’re amazingly handsome, Dorian. I am envious of your lush, silky hair. You were right about everything because you are so smart and handsome and perfect and I now understand Tevinter social classes perfectly all thanks to your impeccable teaching skills. Hooray, you._

It could also be utter nonsense like _horse teeth, Dorian. Chomp, chomp, chomp. Mmm, tasty!_

Being on the cusp of a tentative friendship after that First Day fiasco, he’s come to understand that Mahanon would definitely be petty enough to do something like this. In fact, it would be more surprising if the elf _didn’t_ part ways with mystery words, knowing full well that Dorian would lose sleep over it, unwilling to let the words go until they’re fully translated into grammatically coherent sentences.

If that kind of vindictive yet playful thoughtfulness doesn’t count as friendship of the fluttery heartwarming kind, he doesn’t know what would.

At the thought of friends, he's brought back to the present where he's standing in an all too silent study by himself. No Tevene lessons. No friendly ribbing. Just him, pacing around with a sheet of paper like an idiot and getting nowhere.

Blowing the ink dry, he folds the paper carefully and tucks it away. This library won't have anything on elves or their language. He'll have to visit a city library or the circle library for that.

Perhaps something by Brother Genitivi.

With that task set aside for tomorrow, Dorian rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, suddenly left with nothing to occupy his time. Alexius had given him the day off, probably feeling the departure of his family just as keenly. Shaking his head, he sighs to himself, “No, no, this won’t do. If you’re going to sulk, Dorian, at least do it with alcohol.” Straightening his robes, he steps back out into the hallway. “This house is far too quiet without those two making trouble.”

\--

He keeps his drinking controlled and wakes up with his head surprisingly clear the next morning. Making a quick trip home for breakfast and a fresh set of clothes, he takes off to the city library with his folded piece of paper in his pocket. The librarian at the front desk nods at him as he enters and greets him, “Good morning. Is there anything in particular you are researching today, Master Pavus?”

Dorian waves him off and saunters in. “No, I’m just here for some idle perusal, thank you.”

Walking over to the shelves to the left, he immediately pulls out Genitivi’s _In Pursuit of Knowledge_ and skims through it, finding it useless beyond a few keywords with which to further his research. The man loosely translated any words he learned for the reader and didn't bother to create a glossary—though, this could’ve been because of the lack of primary resources on the writer’s part.

Stifling the urge to toss the book away in exasperation, he shelves it and goes to look for more. To his dismay but not surprise, he only finds two pitifully thin books and a pamphlet on elven culture.

It frustrates him, knowing full well that he had a wealth of Dalish knowledge available to him less than a day ago. Getting the information out of Mahanon might not have been the easiest of tasks, but as a resource, he was _right there_. Of course, he also wouldn’t be in this predicament if it wasn’t for said resource.

Somewhere out there, Mahanon is probably cackling to himself and maybe sipping on some brandy on the roof of the carriage as it carries him to freedom.

“I’ll show him,” he mutters to himself and returning to his research.

One of the books turn out to be little more than wild tales of savage elves selling simple, pious peasants into slavery and stealing their babies to perform blood magic in some cave in the forest. Dorian scoffs quietly to himself, thinking of that night when he found the elf in the alleyway, hands slipping in a puddle of his own blood, legs weak but still struggling to stand. “And yet people will still believe this drivel.”

He subtly tucks the book away between two large shelves and returns to the desk.

The pamphlet is trite Orlesian Chantry propaganda, recounting how they had the divine right via the Maker’s supposed blessing to lead an exalted march on the elves.

_“Elves were guilty of the greatest sin, of turning from the Maker. But we will show them mercy, for that is what Andraste teaches.”_

At this, he physically cringes and quickly goes to hide the pamphlet between another set of shelves.

The last book is little more than a reiteration of Genitivi’s passage. Vague and general knowledge of the Dalish and their nomadic ways, how they refuse to bend to the will of the Chantry and defiantly continue the worship of their pantheon of heathen gods. He’s about to call it quits but then notices citations to a section he had skipped over in Genitivi’s book. With little else to go on, he goes back and retrieves the book once more.

Dorian reads the anecdote of Genitivi’s encounter with a Dalish elf and learning about his vallaslin, symbols of their gods. He reads about _Andruil_ , their goddess of hunt, and wonders if that's what Mahanon wears on his face. The elf certainly knew his way around a weapon. But he didn't carry himself like a hunter—not that he of all people would know what a Dalish hunter is supposed to be like.

Before he knows it, he's back on his feet and walking over to the folklore and mythology section.

By the end of his visit, he's learnt a lot more about elven gods but not so much about elven vocabulary, and it'll be months yet before he can regale Felix with all his new knowledge.

Cracking his neck, Dorian sighs and makes his way to the closest tavern in the vicinity.

\--

“You wouldn't happen to know any Elven, would you?” he asks Sanna during one of his breaks.

It's been days and he's visited every library within a day’s travel and asked around his circle of colleagues and acquaintances, but no one's been able to help. For all the knowledge that’s been gathered in Minrathous, there’s horribly little on the people they enslaved. At this point, it has turned from idle curiosity to a point of contempt and no matter how much he wants to forget about the whole affair, he refuses to let the elf win.

The healer arches a brow. “My mother used to speak it to me and my brothers, but I'm afraid I have since forgotten most of it.”

Dorian blinks. “Your mother was Dalish?”

“Yes, she had the tattoos and everything. She passed when I was still young though. Life in Tevinter is not kind to the Dalish.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry. That was insensitive of me. I didn't mean to dredge up bad memories,” he mutters sheepishly.

She shakes her head. “It was a long time ago. If I may ask, why are you interested in Elven, Lord Pavus?”

Glancing away, he's a little embarrassed to admit the truth. But then again, this woman has seen him at his very worst and barely batted an eyelash at the sight of it, so he confesses, “That Mahanon said something to me before he left and I have no idea what it means. I have half a mind to chase him down for a translation.”

Sanna hides her laughter behind a hand. “There are solutions closer to home. I am afraid I only know the very basics like andaran atish’an and dareth shiral.”

He perks up. “Wait, what was that last one? I think he said that.”

“Dareth shiral? It means goodbye.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Dorian mutters, “Not as vulgar or amusing as I expected, but I suppose it makes an unsurprising amount of sense given the situation. That’s one word down. Do you have any ideas about ‘suledin’ or perhaps ‘ema rogathe’?”

The healer shakes her head. “No, I’m afraid not, Lord Pavus.”

As far as he’s concerned, the message is probably something along the lines of _you’re the biggest tool, Dorian. I hope you find rat droppings in your cake. Goodbye._ Even if the ‘goodbye’ does throw the tone off a little.

“I may know someone who can assist you,” Sanna continues. “However, he is not easily accessible, so you would have to come with me for part of my rounds tomorrow.”

Not about to pass up the chance to get answers, he bows theatrically. “My dear, I would be delighted to.”

“Just a suggestion, Lord Pavus, but I wouldn't wear anything you're attached to.”

\--

When he said he'd be delighted to, he wasn't expecting a visit to the worst part of the red district. Dorian waits for the healer at a quiet intersection as instructed, hands tucked away in his pockets, trying his best to look inconspicuous. The morning mist hasn't completely dissipated yet and he can feel a mild chill in the air.

With a guard behind her, Sanna greets him and points at a shabby looking building down the block. “The one you're looking for is in there.”

As far as brothels and bathhouses go, the building the woman is pointing at is the sort he would never step in no matter how inebriated. He remembers Mahanon’s comment about tattooed elves selling for less and wonders if all Dalish end up in places like these.

“There?” he asks feebly, hoping she’ll direct her finger elsewhere.

“There,” Sanna confirms, unblinking. “Will you be alright, Lord Pavus?”

Dorian nods, his throat dry. “Of course. Please, lead the way.”

They enter through a back entrance and he wrinkles his nose in disgust at the sight of mold stained walls underneath peeling paint. A woman greets Sanna politely and leads them to a small room off to the side.

With no windows, the room is dark and dingy and smelled of blood, sweat, and disease. The dim flicker of candlelight reveal the figures on the beds. Dorian is no stranger to sickness and injuries, but some of the patients have him recoiling in horror.

Unflinchingly, the healer and her guard attend to her patients, soothing their pain and closing their wounds. When she finishes, Sanna asks the woman who had shown them in, “Is Variel in?”

The woman frowns, more surprised than upset at the question. “I'm afraid he's no longer with us. That cough he had took him in his sleep.”

Sanna pauses and dips her head, but she keeps her tone neutral. “I see. I'm sorry to hear that.”

“As were we to lose him,” she says. Dorian knows this game well. Tevinters may feel everything strongly, but they'll only ever display what's advantageous for the situation, otherwise settling for unimpressed disdain. But this woman recited the words so nonchalantly, he half expected her to ask if they’d like an order of biscuits on the side with that order of pretend sympathy.

Silently, he follows Sanna back outside and hears her sigh. “He was a good man, Variel. He could brighten a room just by entering.” She turns around, her eyes dry but distant. “I'm sorry for bringing you out here for nothing, Lord Pavus.”

It occurs to him then that with a Dalish mother, the healer may have grown up in a building similar to this. Shaking his head, he says, “No, it was good to see. A little hard to stomach a first, but good nonetheless. It’s all too easy to forget that this also exists in Tevinter.”

“Yes, Master Felix followed me on my rounds once when he was younger. I found him crying outside after.”

He manages a chuckle. “Ah, poor Felix. That explains so much. I imagine I would've done the same if you'd brought me a few years earlier.” After a moment, he asks, “Is it always like this?”

“To some degree,” Sanna tells him. “They're what some of the owners would call 'off rotation’. Once they're well enough, they'll be sent back to the front and take clients again. As for the deaths, they probably already have a scouter scouring the docks at the latest shipments for a replacement.”

“Is there no leaving such an…establishment?”

The healer shrugs. “They can leave as any slave leaves their master.”

Although she keeps her tone light, the heaviness of the implications in that simple statement has him lowering his eyes. “Oh.” He hesitates. “Do you ever want more freedom? Live away from humans and all that?”

She arches a brow but then glances back at the building and tells him, “As someone who grew up a slave, I used to admire the Dalish for their resilience and how hard they fought for freedom. We all did. But I am not one of them and never will be. Here, I’ve earned my citizenship with a fair benefactor who allowed me to continue running my business. This is as free as I'll ever get, Lord Pavus.”

Her words weigh down on him even after they part ways.

When he returns home, he finds another letter from home. With heavy fingers, he cuts through the wax and reads,

_‘Son,’_

And on the next page,

_‘Dearest Future Husband,’_

“Free as I'll ever be, huh?” Rolling his eyes, he puts his father’s request for him to return and Livia’s subtle plea for him to stay away down and announces to no one in particular, “I need a drink,” and leaves the house.

\--

He continues bashing his head against literary walls, finding no further translations or anything of interest until to his surprise, he's approached by an acquaintance whose name his brain refuses to remember a few days later. “So I hear you're interested in tattooed elves, Pavus?”

Dorian arches a brow with disinterest and continues gathering his things. “You probably heard wrong.”

Undeterred, the man continues, “You should come over some time. I may be able to help.”

“I’m not sure we have the same type of assistance or interest in mind,” he says dryly. “Actually, I’m certain we don’t.”

The man chuckles. “Oh no, I think I have some idea. Don’t play coy with me, Pavus. You’re looking for the genuine thing, are you not? I overheard you the other day.”

Ah, it must’ve been when he exclaimed his frustration and disgust to a friend about finding a slave whose face had been tattooed because their master thought their temperament was ‘as feisty as any southern savage’. Of course, he disguised his very genuine horror behind complaints about how tactless and distasteful the very idea was—as a proper man of his standing should.

Surely, Mahanon never intended for his words to lead Dorian on such a wild goose chase (given how little the elf knew about Tevinter), but thanks to him, Dorian feels like he's scoured all the farthest corners of Minrathous in search of answers only to end up here. With this random, unsavory person who thinks he has some sort of elf fetish he wants to act on.

“Ah, I see,” he sighs, “and now you think you have what I’m looking for.”

“I don’t just think, Pavus, I know I have exactly what you’re looking for,” the man insists. “A tattooed elf for 'purely academic reasons’, as you say.”

It's a wonder where some people get such confidence from.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he mutters, “Right. As I say.”

It's only out of sheer curiosity and desperation that he winds up at the man’s house. A collared slave opens the door for him and leads him to the parlor where—oh, what _was_ his name again—is sitting. Kneeling next to him is a Dalish elf, silent and with her eyes trained on the floor.

“So glad you could make it, Pavus! Tea?”

Dorian shakes his head, already regretting ever setting foot in this place. “No, thank you.”

He has a feeling that he’s not going to like whatever’s about to come out of this man’s mouth.

Stroking the elf’s long chestnut hair, he says, “Magnificent, aren’t they? Even when they're sitting still they feel wild. There’s no feeling quite like breaking in a tattooed elf for the first time.”

And there it is.

“Is that right,” he mutters.

“Oh, yes. You haven’t tried it yet, have you? That’s why you’ve been looking for one? I can't say I blame you!” He gestures at the elf at his feet and says proudly, “She is my greatest achievement. Breaking her took months of hard work, and now look at how well behaved she is!”

He remembers Dolorus laughing as he presses his foot down on Mahanon’s throat and has to swallow back the bile. “It sounds like you have quite a lot of experience.”

“Of course. If you were hoping to peruse my collection, I’m afraid I’ve sold them all back. I only keep my very favourite as a trophy of sorts, you see. There's a rule of two in the market. Keep any more than two of these beasts and you're just asking for trouble. I haven't been able to find a new one yet though. Matter of fact, I’ve been on the prowl, but none of the ones they’ve been bringing in seem enough of a challenge. Perhaps it’s time I moved onto qunari?”

“How very admirable of you,” he manages to get out. Every word out of the man’s mouth feels like a week’s worth of grime on his skin.

“Master Crelli, there is a message for you from your aunt,” a voice interrupts from the door.

Right, that was his name.

The nephew of some distant magister and evidently not someone important enough to take note of.

Dorian exhales silently in relief when the man rises.

“Please excuse me, I’ve been expecting this and need to attend to it immediately. You should come with me the next time I go browsing. In the meantime, feel free to enjoy yourself, Pavus,” he says with a suggestive leer. “She doesn’t bite. Not anymore.”

He’s going to have to take at least two showers to wash this feeling away. “I’m not going to do anything to you and I am not going to make you do anything,” he quickly reassures the slave the moment the man leaves, speaking in Common Tongue to her out of habit. “I really only had a quick question, a bit of a translation I was hoping for help with and he got the wrong idea entirely on his own, I assure you. However, if you’d be willing to lend me your assistance, I’d be very grateful.”

The elf doesn’t look up and he hates that he can see just how much life and fire used to be in her eyes. He glances up at the ceiling, trying to imagine what Felix would say in the face of such awkward silence.

“Coming here was a horrible idea. What was I thinking?” Dorian grumbles, wishing he could convey his displeasure to Mahanon, wherever he may be. Glancing over at the slave, he sighs and offers, “How about I say the words I need help with and if you feel like translating, then by all means, please do. And if you don’t, I'll do us both a favour and leave.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches her sneaking a peek at him, probably wanting to put a face to the crazed rambling maniac who randomly dropped by. Not that he can blame her.

Taking a deep breath, he gets up and crouches down in front of the elf so that they're eye level, though he makes sure to keep plenty of space between them. It feels wrong to sit and look down at someone he's seeking help from. “Suledin. Ema rogathe.”

Her head snaps up, eyes wide.

At her reaction, Dorian clears his throat sheepishly. “Please excuse my pronunciation. I only got to hear it once, you see. And if it’s something vulgar and terrible as I suspect it may well be, I promise you won’t get in trouble for telling me what it is.”

Tears begin to well up in the woman’s eyes and spill silently down her cheeks.

He panics. “Maker, did I utterly butcher it?”

She shakes her head. “It’s not...that’s not it. Suledin. Suledin.” Burying her face in her hands, she repeats the words over and over again to herself quietly.

Unsure of what to do, he sits and waits.

What in the world did Mahanon tell him?

When the woman calms down, she wipes the tears away and looks up, though still bruised and tired, her eyes look a little brighter than they had been a moment ago.

Still bewildered, he asks as politely as he can, “I take it the words meant something to you?”

“Ser, if I may ask, who spoke those words?” she asks quietly.

“It was a…friend,” he says. “He’s Dalish, you see. I’m afraid he’s no longer here—in the city, I mean,” he quickly clarifies. “He said this before he left and I’ve been trying to find out what it means.”

“They are words of encouragement, ser,” she tells him, new tears dripping onto her hands, folded neatly in her lap. “Suledin. Endure, draw strength from your loss and suffering. And ema rogathe. Have courage.”

Dorian gapes. “Endure and have courage,” he repeats in disbelief.

Perhaps he said it wrong?

“Suledin. Ema rogathe,” she says quietly, with reverence. “Ma serannas.”

Those words, he knows. “What for?”

She shakes her head, reciting the words quietly to herself. “I'd nearly been lost.”

He sits for another minute before realizing that the head of the house won’t be returning any time soon, perhaps for the sake of giving him privacy and whatever perverse thing he thinks is happening right now, and gets up. “Is there anything I can help you with? Perhaps I can get you out of this house and onto the road?” he offers.

The elf shakes her head, eyes quickly casting back down.

Does she think he’s testing her?

Not wanting to make the woman any more uncomfortable than she already is, he glances at the door and tells her, “Very well. I’m going to go now before that idiot comes back and starts talking to me again, but if you ever need help, ask for Pavus.” The words leave his mouth before he realizes what he’s saying. “I’m sure he’ll be more than delighted to bring me back, and I promise I will find some way to help you.”

“Why are you offering me aid?” she asks, glancing up, voice just half a whisper.

Dorian considers her question for a moment and tries to imagine how others would answer. Felix would say something valiant like because it's the right thing to do. Mahanon would probably look him right in the eyes and say because no one else is doing anything.

And him?

He shrugs sheepishly. “Honestly, I'm just giving this courage thing a go.”

Her lips curl upwards faintly and he can't help but feel a little proud of that. “Pavus,” she repeats, stealing a quick glance up at him. “Thank you. I won't forget this.”

“No, if anything, I should be thanking you for your help. Endure and have courage,” he recites to himself. Slipping out the door, he nods back at her and whispers, “Good luck.”

The next morning, Dorian hears about an elven slave going rogue and killing an ‘esteemed Altus mage’. There are endless accounts about the kind of man the victim was and how tragic the event was, but nothing on the slave. It’s hardly surprising, but it bothers him nonetheless.

Did she get caught?

Did she escape?

Did she hold her head high as she walked away from the body?

Did he do the right thing?

Although he feels like he did, he wishes Felix was around for just a little bit of validation.

Huffing to himself, he mutters, “Right is subjective, Dorian. You’ve written enough papers to know that.” Looking down at the letters from Qarinus he’s been ignoring, he frowns. “Some might say that what’s right is to simply do what you know to be right in your heart.”

The right thing would be to respond to the letters honestly.

He tucks the pages away.

“But not today.”

He gets up and quickly leaves the house before he can change his mind.

When Dorian arrives at the Alexius household to meet his mentor, he finds the place in a frenzy. Alexius, the healer, and a handful of staff are running out to the spare carriage, packed to the brim and ready to take off. Dread squeezes at his throat as he hurries inside and asks, “What’s going on?”

One of the maids turns around in surprise, her face pale. “Lord Pavus! It’s Master Felix, he and the mistress were attacked by darkspawn. He was the only survivor.”

\--

It takes another week for Felix to be brought back home from Vol Dorma.

The entire time, Dorian stays at the Alexius estate, pacing and worrying and occasionally drinking himself into a stupor. He’s awake and pacing by the window when a carriage pulls up in front of the house and he watches his friend be brought in to his room, his face pale and drenched with sweat.

He waits outside until Alexius and Sanna are finished settling him in. They spare him a brief nod on their way out of the room, eyes sunken, their exhaustion evident.

Knocking on the door, he pokes his head in and calls out, “Felix?”

The younger man is sitting up in bed and although still mild and controlled, he can clearly see signs of the blight. “Dorian? Is that you?”

Dorian swallows hard and enters. Walking to the bed, he throws his arms around his friend, pulling him in tight. “Thank the Maker you're alright.”

Minutes pass and tears soak through his robes. Tightening his grip, Dorian doesn't let go until he's certain that he's no longer at risk of bursting into tears himself.

“I'm sorry about your mother, Felix,” he manages at last, voice cracking only a little bit.

Felix looks up, fresh tears filling his eyes. “She saved us.”

He arches a brow. “Us?”

A nod. “Me and Mahanon. He’s the one who brought me back to Vol Dorma and he would've come with me but I sent him away. I shouldn’t have.” Clinging to the belts of his robes, Felix cries, “He saved my life and I probably sent him to his death.”

Endure, Dorian, he tells himself even as his throat tightens.

Running a hand through his hair and taking a deep breath, he rubs his friend’s back reassuringly. “Goodness, what kind of nonsense are you spouting? Do you really think that ridiculous elf can't handle himself in the wilderness?”

“But we were going to part in Nevarra. He wasn't prepared to cross the Silent Plains, Dorian. What if he was injured? I didn't even think to check!” Felix protests.

He tries not to picture Mahanon bloodied and dragging himself across a stretch of arid wasteland. Maybe he should’ve thought of something more practical to add to the provisions. What good could candied dates and lock picks possibly do a person in the Silent Plains?

Shaking his head, Dorian returns his attention to Felix. There's nothing he can do for Mahanon now, but at the very least, he can try to comfort his friend. He exhales and pulls the younger man back into a loose hug. “Mahanon will be fine, Felix. If he could survive losing his own weight in blood and still fight off bounty hunters the next day, he can survive a stroll through the plains. _You_ , on the other hand, should focus on getting better first. Those bags under your eyes are atrociously unflattering.”

That gets him a soft, weepy laugh. “There go all my Wintersend invitations.”

“Don't worry, worst comes to worst, you can always go as my plus one.”

Have courage, he tells himself, even as it feels like the ground is swallowing him whole.

\--

In between switching tracks in his research to help Alexius search for a cure for Felix, ignoring his father’s letters, and keeping his friend company, two years fly by in a blur. The words he learned get swept up in the drama of his everyday life and lay forgotten in the recesses of his mind.

When they finally do return to him, the original words and their foreign syllables have long since faded to muffled voices, leaving behind nothing more than a simple mantra and faint memories of sharp amber eyes to remember them by.

Though the words he worked so hard to translate are gone, the message echoes.

It's there, keeping his voice from breaking, when he storms out of the Alexius household, unable to watch Felix writhe in needless pain any longer but unable to convince his mentor to let his son go.

It's there, keeping his fists clenched and his mind unchanged, when he’s forcefully taken back to Qarinus and locked in his room, listening to his father explain over and over again why he should just give in to his social obligations and _please, Dorian, why must you be so selfish and make this so much harder than it needs to be?_

It's there, keeping his eyes dry, when he leaves his house, angry, walking on cobblestones and _I’m on my own now._

It's there, keeping his heartbeat calm, when he stares at glowing green maw in the sky as he walks through one of the many gates of Minrathous with nothing more than the clothes on his back.

Endure, Dorian, he tells himself.

Rubbing the pendant hanging off his neck, he takes a deep breath and boards the ship without looking back.

Have courage.

**Author's Note:**

> Took a little longer than I expected, but here it is! Next update will probably be in the next week or two? It's Inquisition time! 
> 
> Thanks a lot for reading and hope you enjoy :)


End file.
